


Office Romance

by htebazytook



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, Romance, Slash, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-02
Updated: 2009-05-02
Packaged: 2017-11-07 08:15:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/428860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A bunch of vaguely connected drabbles with a general drift toward the melancholy, or, my attempt at becoming less wordy through the restrictions of the drabble.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Office Romance

**Author's Note:**

> A bunch of vaguely connected drabbles with a general drift toward the melancholy, or, my attempt at becoming less wordy through the restrictions of the drabble.

**Title:** Office Romance  
 **Author:** [](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/profile)[**htebazytook**](http://htebazytook.livejournal.com/)  
 **Rating:** R  
 **Disclaimer:** <\--  
 **Pairing:** House/Wilson  
 **Time Frame:** All seasons in a fairly willy-nilly way, don’t think there's anything majorly spoilerly though.  
 **Author's Notes:** A bunch of vaguely connected drabbles with a general drift toward the melancholy, or, my attempt at becoming less wordy through the restrictions of the drabble.

 

 

His phone hummed. Cameron jumped. Foreman sighed.

"And?" House asked them collectively, flipped it open while Cameron kept talking.

 _Busy?_ the text read.

 _Depends. what are you wearing?_ It fluttered off to '_Wilson'—underscore placing him at the top of House's address book. He whiled away the time listening to Cameron.

 _In the lab, this test will take at least 30 min_  
Then, _And the french maid's outfit, bien sur_

_Fine. meet me in the chapel in 5_

_No_

_About time we messed around in there_

_Fine less than 5 tho_ House practically heard his exasperation, looked forward to erasing it.

 

 

*

 

 

It was nice outside, and Wilson was stuck stalking House in the clinic.

Wilson _could've_ called in sick and been a good husband but he'd . . . rather be loitering around empty pharmacies? Truly sad.

House emerged from an exam room, sidled up to him. "Getting me a present? Don't worry, I'll close my eyes and it'll still be a surprise." House had that look in his eye, the one Wilson was banking on.

"No present—just this." Wilson dragged him behind the counter, kissed him amid a colorful arrangement of painkillers.

It didn't count if only happened at work.

 

 

*

 

 

House was minding his own business, jerking Wilson off in the MRI observation room, Wilson muffling his groans in House's mouth, when Wilson's beeper went off.

"The hundreds of bored nurses milling around can take care of it," Wilson said, turning it off.

House shrugged agreement, took hold of Wilson's cock again, rolly chairs throwing them deliciously off-balance. House had to hold the back of Wilson's head while they kissed to keep them steady with Wilson so shaky and obsessed and _close_.

" _Ahyes_ . . ."

They didn't do this without the threat of discovery. Wouldn't.

"Mm, Wilson."

Would they?

 

 

*

 

 

Wilson was laying in wait in the little side room off the lecture hall, listening to House’s latest, _Bachelor_ -themed gimmick unfold. The fellowship candidates'/contestants' seriousness amused him more than anything.

House sauntered in, expectant, intent, Wilson feeling like their relationship was a duty to society, keeping House as happy and functioning and useful as possible. Like the pills.

Wilson was thinking about all of this while House was stroking his hand, standing close, eyes scarily guileless on him, while he longed to kiss him.

And then the thorn bit into Wilson’s arm.

“Oh, yeah. I’m giving you the final rose.”

 

 

*

 

 

House brushed Wilson's leg under the table. Wilson looked up from his lunch, smothered a smirk.

"It's not tremendously _moral_ , that's all." Wilson shrugged.

(Cameron wouldn't've let it go.)

"Only pick the diagnoses that fits _just_ right."

". . . I'm Goldilocks in this metaphor?"

"You do have the hair for it," Wilson deadpanned.

(Foreman had no sense of humor.)

Wilson's hair stuck out on one side today, elegant eyes always slightly out of focus.

(Chase was _too_ pretty.)

House's shoe hooked around Wilson's and Wilson hid his smile in his drink, licked his lips after.

Wilson was just right.

 

 

*

 

 

House spun around like a spooked horse and stared at Wilson with especially big eyes.

"Why are you here?"

Wilson waited. House continued to stare. "Why are _you_ here?"

House blinked. "Crazy-ass procedure approval." Looked at him.

"I . . . think she's in a meeting."

". . . You never said why—"

Wilson sighed. " _Fine_. I admit it—I was following you."

House snickered, eyes brushing over Wilson slowly. "You know so much—how long's she gonna be?"

Wilson raised his eyebrows, closed the blinds behind Cuddy's desk, addressed House's smirk: "Let's _not_ give her another reason to redecorate, okay?"

 

 

*

 

 

Molesting his best friend in a bathroom before lunch helped House think.

Their closed-quartered struggle, the slide of fabrics, the clank of belts echoing. The stall lock was impaling House’s side but he couldn’t bring himself to care since Wilson was the one pressing him into it, getting so lost in the feel and taste and sluttiness of him after his coffee kicked in.

It helps him think. Pica, pellagra, porphyria—see?

Wilson licked his neck, spoke against the slippery skin: “God. Wish we had more time. _God_ , I’d . . . _mm_ . . .”

It seriously helped him think.

 

 

*

 

 

 _Come on, i have food in here_ Wilson sent.

It did the trick. House showed up at the oncology lounge in a matter of minutes, talking about his case and relying on Wilson for nourishment—food and answers. Wilson felt better already.

But then House asked him if he was okay and made his heart stop a little. Couldn't think of anything to say so he stood, thinking of leaving.

Wilson told himself it was stress relief as he let House touch him, initiate a kiss, maybe even care.

"Hey, did you guys ever get TiVo?" House asked between kisses.

 

 

*

 

 

House had never deduced exactly _who_ was in charge of the piano floating around the hospital so naturally he had taken it under his wing. Phantom furniture, popping up in random places before disappearing again. Liberating under his fingers, but maybe only half-sincere. Couldn't trust it.

Like Wilson.

House pushed Wilson against the piano in the hallway, tasting his mouth and something Stravinskyan in the air, high octatonic cluster like an afterthought to Wilson's whimper, pressed Wilson against the keys before it could disappear. Again.

The piano may have been a smug, inconstant bastard but House couldn't help needing it.

 

 

*

 

 

"My place?" House asks.

No, House's place is all about Stacy. "Or mine . . . well." And Wilson's is in actuality _Amber's_.

House looking at him like this out in the real world with the smell of grass and the sun coloring him differently is all a little too . . . well, real. Wilson remembers suggestive text messages from earlier, remembers House standing too close in the hallway.

It's so damn hot outside. As long as they're just standing there Wilson figures he might as well roll up his sleeves . . .

"Come on," House says, fingers dragging over his bare arm as he goes past.

He isn't walking toward the parking lot but Wilson follows anyway, loosens his tie.

They end up somewhere on the campus on a bench, student-free as far as the eye can see, allergens rising up to meet them, Wilson wondering what House is getting at.

And indeed House doesn’t just kiss Wilson, House yanks him in by his tie, silk digging into the sweaty back of Wilson’s neck and tongue suddenly in his mouth. One firm hand sliding down Wilson’s chest and around to his back while the other tangles his hair and he can hear House moan a little.

It's the middle of August and it's downright bizarre to feel House's body so heated without the sharp contrast of fanatical air conditioning, without constant far-off footsteps or beeping machines or cell phones or excuses.

"Let's go somewhere," Wilson pants.

Something clicks in House's mind, Wilson can tell. He nods. "Let's get the hell away from the hospital for a change."

 

 

*


End file.
